Even In Death
by makeyafamous
Summary: AU. Dean is a vampire in the near future, alone, searching for a companion and, though he thinks he is dead, his brother, Sam.
1. Passage One: All I Want Is Everything

**Passage #1 - All I Want Is Everything**

_All I want is everything,  
__Am I asking too much?  
__All I want is everything,  
__Like the feel of your touch.  
_**Def Leppard, "All I Want Is Everything"**

He holds vigil over her nearly every night of every week, just as he did with her mother until he killed her; and her grandmother until he killed her as well. Her fate is to be the same as the other females in her family, but he's confused as to why he hasn't killed her yet; why he hasn't sank his teeth into her sweet carotid artery and drained her of her red heat.

The liquor he orders from the buxom blonde waitress never quenches his thirst or the Hunger, but it thankfully quells his inexorable lust for the barmaid's body and blood. She looks nothing like her mother or grandmother, but a few of their features were passed down to her – lucid sapphire eyes and full exotic lips. But it's her hereditary pale complexion which draws his attention so often. He has no idea how much or how little time she spends in the sun, but he knows that pallid skin can never be tanned.

He tries to tune his supersonic hearing into the conversation between the blonde waitress and the target barmaid, but the clinking of dishes, the boisterous laughing and high fives of the drunken patrons and the _clack_ of pool balls smacking together drown out the whispered words the women are sharing. He can see her, though, when he centers his well-defined pupils on her, and everyone else becomes nothing but a blur as her image sharpens to perfection. The golden B around a golden chain glistens under the dim lighting, the glitter on her chest sparkles as she moves and her pinky finger rises every time she pours a new drink. She is the epitome of perfect. She is Bella Teague – owner of the most prestigious bar in town: _1984_.

When two a.m. creeps in, Bella announces last call. She and the blonde, whose name he doesn't care to learn, make rounds, collecting empty beer bottles and distributing the very last drinks of the night. Just like every night, he hopes Bella is the one to collect his empty bottles, and just like every night, it's the blonde who swings by his section. But if this was like every other night, he would have slipped through the door after his bottles were removed from his table. Tonight he doesn't. Tonight he leans back in his chair, grabs a pack of Luckies from the pocket of his leather jacket and a Zippo lighter. He shakes the pack, lifting it to his mouth, and extracts a cancerous stick with his chapped red lips. He flips the lid of the Zippo, runs the wheel across his pant leg, and brings the flame to the tip of the cigarette where it licks his face like the Devil. Inhaling and squinting his eyes against the smoke, he snaps the lid closed on the lighter and drops it onto the table.

Every distraction afforded to him, he uses. He'll never die or get sick from the smoking, but the acidic burn it creates as it floats down his windpipe and into his lungs is a welcome change to the rumbling in his stomach and the excessive saliva pooling in his mouth. He wants her, but he can't decide which way he wants her: toe-tagged or wrapped around him in bed, writhing beneath him. Each option is enticing; each option comes with its own erotic fantasy and physically satisfying ending, but still he is torn. He hates that deep down, he knows which he wants – which he craves more – and it's ultimately the reason he hasn't fed upon her yet. He refuses to admit it.

After annihilating the cigarette, he crushes the end into the ashtray as he eyes the enigmatic barmaid, who has lately made it a point to keep her distance from him. He suspects she's discovered who and what he is, but he isn't frightened. Who would she tell and who would believe her? This revelation does dampen his mood, however, and he stands, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and throwing it on carelessly. He stuffs the Zippo into the pocket holding the Luckies and heads for the door. As he's opening it, a familiar hand presses against the window and closes it. He knows the hand – knows who it belongs to, but what he doesn't know is why it's there, stopping him from leaving.

"I know who you are," the whisper drifts on the air for a moment before fleeing into his ears. His teeth clench to prevent the lengthening of his weapons and he clears his throat.

"No, you don't," he responds in a whisper as well, turning his head to look down at her. Her eyes burn into him, threatening to read him like an open Shakespearean play, and the Hunger attacks his senses – dizzying him and nauseating his innards.

"Yes, I do," she nods, moving to stand between his body and his escape route. "I know what you did … and I know what you want to do."

If she's allowed to speak any longer, he'll take her immediately.

"Do it," she finishes, gazing hard into his fiery eyes. "I'll be happier in death."

When he meets her gaze, his hand raises to cup her cheek – his eyes mutating from normal hazel to ice cold blue. When the enchantment is complete, she's frozen under his touch – her head tilted to the side, her eyes consumed by obedience.

"I would rather watch you from the shadows if only to ensure your happiness," he whispers against her lips, removing his hand from her skin and watching her crumple to the floor in defeat.

He'll have to buy another pack of cigarettes on the way home.


	2. Passage Two: Glycerine

**Author's Note:** _I forgot to mention that I realize the language is a bit odd, but this story is set in a specific time in the future where the speech is a mite different than the present.  
__Also, all the Winchesters will make an appearance eventually, so be patient.  
__This is **not** a "Mary Sue", even though I personally hate the term. So don't run away just because there's an OFC.  
__Reviews are appreciated and do help to get chapters out sooner, but thank you to those of you who have this story on alert._

Passage #2 - Glycerine

_Now you're here, now you're away,  
__I don't want this, remember that,  
__I'll never forget where you're at,  
__Don't let the days go by  
_**Bush, "Glycerine" **

He waits tenaciously in the alleyway behind _1984_ the next night. The spell he cast last night wasn't enough to make her completely forget about what happened, but that's what he wanted. He wanted her to recall everything – know what he can do to her. His intentions are specifically to let her live in fear about what he might do next, but he's incredibly disheartened when he can't smell her trepidation. Maybe she was speaking the total truth concerning her death wish.

Since his Dark Conception, he's ignored his adeptness to hear the thoughts and feelings of humans. He's a murderer and perceives no remorse for doing so, but mind-reading has never found a place in him. A person's thoughts are their own, unlike their blood.

All at once, his senses are swelled with her fragrance of shampoo, her chewing gum and sweat from working all night. She's close, but so far away. The mixture of odors mingles with the stench of brick, which he's leaning against, and drywall. He languidly turns around to face the fortification and he inhales fervently, closing his eyes. She's got to be standing against the other side of the wall. He lifts his hand and hesitates a split second before flattening his palm on the brickwork. Static electricity stings the pads of his fingers as he glides his hand along the wall in the shape of her body.

He begins to open his mind to the commotion of jumbled thoughts around him, sifting through them as he tries to find the important ones – the ones belonging to Bella Teague. He recognizes her voice immediately with its sweet innocence and sultry tone. Her thoughts confirm that she is positioned right against the wall and she knows he's on the other side of it. He retracts his hand instantly, shaking it free of the tingling ardor residing in his dry skin.

His nerves have been rattled for the first time in almost a century and he's unsure how to treat such an emotion. Does he even remember what real emotions are?

He sniffs her on the air again, but it's substantially stronger than before. He stands firm to face the end of the alleyway where the scent seems to originate from as opposed to directly through the wall and he hears the door to _1984_ open and close. His fingers feel as though they've fallen asleep, joining the buckling of his knees and the uselessness of his arms. He's suddenly deadweight while he watches Bella Teague approach him. He licks his lips, realizing what his symptoms have in store for him, but also that he has more power of her. It's her scent and the mere glimpse of her azure eyes that create his momentary disorientation. Just like her mother. Just like her grandmother.

"You're everywhere," she murmurs, slowing her pace, cracking her knuckles as her hands hang at her sides. "In my dreams, in my nightmares, in my daydreams … in my _mirrors_."

His mouth goes dry and he blinks every few seconds. He didn't expect it to ever happen; he didn't expect to ever feel it. Up until now, he's always thought it was just lie – a story – sent down from generations upon generations of vampires and their companions.

"But every time I turn around," she continues, "You're not there." She stops walking and ends up only a few inches from him. "I _feel_ you everywhere." She dares one more step forward. "If you're going to do this, please don't drag it out."

"And what is _this_?" he retorts, stepping forward as well, touching the toe of her black boot with his own.

She exhales exhaustion and closes her eyes, causing him to smirk in satisfaction. "It's like you're inside of me …"

He leans down, his lips brushing hers and breathes, "Not yet … not yet." His tongue snakes out of his mouth, sliding across her dehydrated lips, and his jeans tighten as his cock hardens from even the simplest of stimulation.

"Don't leave me here," she begs, licking her lips.

"One of these days, you'll be mine," he says, "And that … will be a sad day."

He backtracks slowly, quickly picking up his pace, as he leaves her standing there – eyes closed and body warmed with arousal.

He almost gave into temptation tonight, but she isn't ready. If he takes her before she's ready, the consequences could be great.


	3. Passage Three: Love You To Death

**Passage #3 - Love You To Death**

_In her place, one hundred candles burning,  
__A salty sweat drips from her breasts,  
__Her hips move, and I can feel what they're saying, swaying …  
__They say the beast inside of me is gonna get ya, get ya, get …  
_**Type O Negative, "Love You To Death"**

For 26 years, he's refrained from stalking her within walking distance of her home. The two story house was also the previous residence of her mother and grandmother and, should she have discovered she was being stalked, she might have felt inclined to move.

But times have suddenly changed. She knows who he is, what he wants and how he'll get it. She should at least suspect that he would come to find her sooner than later.

He parks Nadine – a 1967 Chevy Impala – down the street from 714 Delaware Street, gets out and walks the rest of the way. He remembers thinking how absurd it had seemed for a vampire with so many supernatural abilities to perform a task as simple as driving, but when he saw the car for the first time, he knew he would never be without it. He named her after his first victim.

Flickering lights are visible in the lower level of Bella's home, which suggests to him she's lit candles – several, by the looks of it. Darkness disguises him as he creeps through the unkempt garden next to the window where most of the light is coming from. Peering inside, he knows instantly that this room is the one she rests in every night. The walls are appropriately painted in dreary scarlet, the marvelous canopy above the bed is also crimson, but a much lighter, more peaceful, shade, with silken drapes hanging from the four corners. The sleek fabric matches that of the blankets and sheets which cover the unmade bed where she lies.

As his eyes finally drift to Bella's body lying on top of the red, silk mess, he wonders for a moment if he isn't seeing this; if he isn't at home in his cold, windowless basement envisioning this whole scene. He reaches out and touches the window to feel the condensation on the pane and now he knows he's not dreaming. He's really here, and she's really there – stretched out on the bed, still completely clothed in a black leather corset, black jeans and black boots, but something he _doesn't_ see every night is her own hand shoved down the front of her pants.

Nonplussed air flees his lungs and lands with a white shadow on the windowpane as he opens his body and mind to the thoughts, feelings and sensations which own Bella at this very moment. He's overcome with heat all over his body that is a welcomed change from his permanently cold blood; her thoughts are exclusively about him – what she wants him to do to her.

Closing his eyes, he can see – in flashes, only – exactly what her fantasies are. His glistening chest pressed firmly against her chest, his mouth sucking hard on her vulnerable neck. He's not sure if he's punctured the skin with his canines, but that's the least of his worries. In another flash, his head is between her legs – tasting her, enjoying her. Next, their places have switched and she's down on her knees in front of him. And then – _sweet mercy­_ – he's on top of her, buried within her saccharine core, thrusting unrelentingly into her just to hear her scream and feel her nails draw blood on his back.

His eyes unlatch when he senses that she's close, too close. Her fingers have accelerated their velocity and she thirsts to howl his name when she reaches climax, but she isn't educated in that area, and he knows this, though he would surrender his immortal life to hear her speak his name. Closing his eyes one last time, he whispers his Christian name, projecting the title through the window, through her bedroom and into her mind.

"_Dean_ …" Her breath is so soft, so unwavering, that he's unsure of even hearing it; but he caught her lips moving, caught them pulling back from her teeth as she sighed exasperatedly.

This time he does not oppose the invitation to enter her room, and he's suddenly standing next to her bed, sniffing the assorted scents of lavender, vanilla, jasmine, rosemary, juniper and sex. He situates a knee onto the satin sheets, and her horrified eyes fly open. She hurriedly rips her hand from her pants, but he grasps her wrist mid-air, drawing her soaking, stiff fingers toward him and, in the process, lifting her from the bed. Once she is on her knees in front of him – cheeks flushed, breathing ragged, heart hammering – he slips the first two fingers into his awaiting mouth, as his eyes hold hers in a locked showdown.

She pants, watching his eyes and lips hungrily as he sucks hard on her fingers, curling his tongue around the tips, savoring the flavor of her excitement and remnants of her orgasm.

"I hate you," she breathes meaningfully, her eyes boring into his.

He raises his eyebrows inquisitively, but the suction around her fingers never decreases.

"I hate the way you look at me," she continues disgustedly, "And the way you talk to me. I hate the way you make me feel." Her free hand rises to rest on a broad shoulder as she moves her face forward. "I hate the way I'll watch the door, waiting for you." Her face and expression sadden ten fold, and he stops sucking if only for a moment. "I hate the fact that I don't think I can live without you."

A smirk morphs onto his lips – arrogant, knowing – and he brushes his fingers through her hair, tilting his head when she leans into the cold of his palm.

"You won't," he confirms her last declaration. "It won't be much longer before … I give you what you want, Bella."

"Dean …" Tears slide down her cheeks as her hand finds his face, but he takes her wrist into his hand and pushes it away.

"Soon."

And then he's gone, and she's alone.


	4. Passage Four: The Dream Is Dead

**Passage #4 - The Dream Is Dead**

_Arrows fester in my heart,  
__Each memory another dart,  
__Love and death both colored red,  
__Showing my past, the dream is dead.  
_**Type O Negative, "The Dream Is Dead"**

He lied when he told her that _soon_ he would come for her. Since that night in her bedroom, he's kept his distance from her. Something inside of him doesn't want to see her, to hear her speak, to feel her eyes on him. He wonders succinctly if this isn't regret that he's feeling. He's lived so long without remorse that he's completely forgotten exactly how it feels. He imagines it's probably something like this.

It's been months since their encounter. Three months, precisely. And, as before, she's in his dreams, his waking nightmares, behind his eyelids when he's ripping the throat out of some random victim he happens upon in a dark alley where they never should have been in the first place. He wants it to be _her_ he's nourishing on, _her_ who is screaming in his ear, _her_ who is clawing at his back at an attempt to stop him from draining her.

But therein lies the problem – he's no longer certain that he would kill her should her neck present itself in front of his mouth. He wants her, desires her, needs her. He wants to taste her blood for the rest of his unending life, not just for mere seconds. He wants to brand his initials – D.W. – into her hip and then cover it with ash, leaving it a permanent but unprofessional tattoo. He wants to prowl the streets with her by his side, clutching his cold hand with her own to remind him that she's still there, that she chooses to be there. He just wants _her_.

It's three days before All Hallows Eve when he makes an appearance back at _1984_. He slips in through the door between two burly motorcycle men who already smell of liquor, cigarettes and leather, and he scurries into the shadows before Bella can see him. He knows for certain that she can sense him, but she'll be quite confused when she can't find him or feel him through the drywall.

"I've been waiting for you."

He spins around, his hand clenching around a soft familiar throat that he knows to be Bella's and he jams her into the nearest wall. He cannot feel the fear radiating from her because it's been replaced by yearning – _God_, she wants him just as much as he wants her, but is it the same thing? Does she want to share an immortal life with him or does she simply want to spend the night in his basement? He can't figure it out because she's learned to block him from her private thoughts.

"Why are you playing with fire?" he murmurs against her blood red lips. _Lipstick should never be sold in this shade_, he thinks bitterly, his lips gliding sensually over hers without applying any kind of pressure.

"Maybe I want to get burned," she breathes in reply, her knee bending and her leg stretching to the side where she touches the inside of her thigh to his hip.

"You don't know what you're asking," he tells her, slamming his knee into the wall between her legs, pressing his groin into her hip. She groans, instinctively bucking her hips forward, and he resists his own moan of pleasure.

"Explain it to me," she pleads, her hand finding his hip and fisting in his jeans.

He snarls as his tongue slithers beneath his extending canines behind his pursed lips. She thinks it's so easy to want what she wants. He smirks dangerously – he'll show her easy.

"It's cold," he respires against her cheek, his eyes flashing blue from hazel as he stares hatefully down at her.

She stares right back, though not nearly with as much spite as him.

"It's lonely," he continues, massaging her with his thigh, gaining a musical moan and the closing of her eyes. "And it's _forever_." He clutches her chin between his fingers and jerks her head, demanding, without words, that she open her eyes and look at him. She obeys. "Do you understand the _meaning_ of the word _forever_?"

"Yes," she whispers, her thigh tightening on his hip at the same time as her fist yanks at his jeans to pull him closer.

"Enlighten me," he growls, shoving his hips against hers as hard as he can – his now rock hard cock is begging for friction.

"God," she whimpers, turning her face away from him.

He grabs her head with both hands – one hand on her throat, the other on the side of her face – and positions it so that she's looking at him again, and both of his knees, on either side of her leg, meet the wall behind her. Her hands lazily move up to his sides – beneath his leather jacket – where she can feel his ribcage and cold, dead skin even through two shirts.

"_He_ can't help you now," he cynically remarks, finding it almost difficult to speak with his canines having grown to half their full length. "Speak," he hisses. "Explain forever to me."

Her eyes suddenly fly open and she gazes back at him with determination and possibly even irritation, he's not sure. Whatever it is, he likes it. He wants to see her angry, to hear her yell, to feel her fight back.

"Eternity," she grounds out. "Infinity. Endlessness." She blinks slowly, her hands clenching his shirts at his sides. "With you."

"I've given you _ample_ opportunities to walk away from this," he breathes reluctantly, surprised even at his own words and the pitch of his voice. "Why do you stay?"

He can't believe when she smiles. "When you left, I stopped dreaming."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Why?"

Her smile widens. "Because you were my dream, Dean."

She speaks his name so beautifully, and he wouldn't mind listening to it for the rest of eternity. But he'll be damned if he isn't unenthusiastic about stealing her conventional life.

_This is remorse_, he tells himself. _This is care_. And where the _fuck_ did it come from?

"Tell me you want this, too, Dean," she says.

His name again. Fuck.

"Death," he finally says nonchalantly, chancing a bored look at Bella, "Is what I want, Bella. Is that what you're willing to give?"

She nods slowly. "Yes."

"Tomorrow."

And then he's gone, and she's alone.


End file.
